


Observation

by angelicdemonicwaitress



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Reader-Insert, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 19:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16878057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicdemonicwaitress/pseuds/angelicdemonicwaitress
Summary: Castiel finds you interesting and enigmatic enough to always be studying you. What comes of it?





	Observation

**Author's Note:**

> The descriptions of mental illness are my own experience with it. I made the choice to write it like that so as to not make generalizations about the experiences of other people.

Cas always had a fascination with you. He would watch you, careful eyes skimming over pale skin he wanted to run his hands over. He didn’t know why he was so attracted to you, exactly; the senses and emotions of his vessel were still unfamiliar to him. He didn’t understand most of human interaction, much less the happy tempest that bubbled up in his chest every time he saw you smile. Your pull on him was a mystery, but it was one he very much enjoyed. 

He most enjoyed just _observing_ you. He always tried to memorize every aspect of you. The dynamics of your movement, the different shades of color in your hair, each expression your face could make, how light struck you at different angles, the way your lips moved when you spoke, each facet of color in your eyes, how you laughed, the heaviness of your footsteps ― anything. He would learn anything unconscious everything about you that he could.

He learned about your soul. There had definitely been moments when you bared it all to him, but he knew the small parts of you too. He knew that you liked coffee with your creamer, not the other way around. He knew about your absolute hatred for onions. He knew what book you’d pick up and dog-ear for the millionth time when you were feeling nostalgic. He knew your happy grin. He knew about the picture of your mother you kept in your wallet. He knew you hated how the Winchesters insisted on doing so much for you, so much so that you’d made a list of chores and given yourself the most. He knew you were a tiny being, filled to the brim with pride. He knew when you were happy, sad, angry, just by the weight of your footsteps or the look on your face.

Cas knew when you weren’t happy either. He knew you liked to bottle up and internalize your emotions because you felt like a burden on others. He knew you’d go and get hammered when cracks formed in the glass. You were never good at handling your feelings in a healthy manner. Your journal always sat on your nightstand, tearstained and ready for when the flood came. But you didn’t like to cry, either. The only time Cas had really seen you cry was at your mother’s funeral, where broken, screaming sobs ripped from your chest like a serrated blade twisted and yanked from a stab wound. 

Cas had never known what depression was before you. You explained it to him, using the words your therapist had given you when you’d started seeing her and before you’d stopped. Depression was a chemical imbalance in the brain. It caused you to feel low, empty, apathetic. There were days, weeks, months, when you didn’t shower, didn’t eat, didn’t even get out of bed. Cas didn’t like those times, but he did what you told him, which was to just _be_ there. Sometimes you just needed him to bear with you through the storm. Someone to fetch all your scented candles and light them in particular shapes and patterns around your room in the bunker, someone to meditate with you, someone to hold you through the nightmares, someone to rile you out of bed and into the shower after thirteen days that consisted of nothing but sleep. Your thoughts didn’t register well on those days, like television through static. He would hold you through the pain when you let him. You said you liked him there sometimes, that his body heat and sturdiness were comforting when you were losing yourself in dark, cold seas.

When you were back to normal, you would apologize to him. You would make him dinner, buy him ice cream, whatever. You would avoid talking about what had transpired between the two of you in favor of apologizing for making him sit through your bad days. He didn’t understand that, so he’d asked Sam and Dean to explain why you apologized for... for being human. They reminded him that hunters were taught that vulnerability was weakness and weakness was death, that you even admitting you had a mental illness was a big deal, and that he should’ve at least attempted to humor your ill-conceived apologies. And try he did, but he always ended up telling you that you didn’t need to apologize. Your distinct humanness made you who you were, made you the person he… he couldn’t say “loved.” 

He knew that word would make your shoulders hike up and go stiff. You would’ve stopped in your tracks the second the monosyllabic words fell off of his lips. The muscle in your jaw would’ve twitched with tension. “Love” was not in your vocabulary. The hunters that had given you life had never wanted children, and that was evident in the way they’d raised you. Growing up with the boys and John would’ve been a cakewalk compared to your actual parents. You never went into serious detail about them, and Cas never asked. He took what you offered. 

Those offerings usually came late at night. You’d never had the best relationship with sleep, and all-nighters were common events for you. Sometimes, though, you sought out companionship in the darkness. When you wanted to drink, you’d often join Dean if he was awake. Most times, you’d seek Cas out. Even when he was human, you’d sneak into his room while he was asleep. You’d slip in bed beside him, and despite being asleep he would always turn towards you, pressing his face into the back of your neck. When he was at full angelic power and didn’t need sleep, you’d often find him watching Netflix. More often than not, though, a sleepless Cas would dip into your room to find you in a fitful sleep, or just awake, reading or sifting through what you’d hadn’t seen on Netflix as well.

Sometimes, you’d subconsciously pray to him. He’d hear your voice calling for him in his head, he’d pop in, and you’d be asleep, curled around a pillow. He’d push the covers over and climb in with you, pulling you towards him with an arm slung over your waist. You’d always snuggle against him. At times, you’d wake up, bleary-eyed and confused, and turn to face him, only for him to sift his fingers through your hair until you went back to sleep. 

The first time the two of you had kissed had been on one of those nights. 

Your voice called out _Cas!_ in his mind, and he materialized in your bedroom. You tossed and turned in bed, whimpering in your sleep. He shook you by your shoulders. You yelped and jerked awake, pulling a revolver from underneath your pillow and pointing it at him in a very Dean-esque manner. 

“Y/N, it’s me,” Cas said in a calm voice. 

Immediately, you lowered the gun, putting the safety back in place and the gun between the mattress and the headboard of your bed. You ran your hands through your unkempt hair and sat so your back was against the wall and you faced him.

“Sorry Cas.”

“I know you wouldn’t shoot me on purpose, Y/N.” He pushed your comforter away from the edge of the bed and sat in front of you, cross-legged, as you were, with his arms resting across his knees. “Care to tell me what you were dreaming about?” 

“Just… a lot of blood and fire... like the hunt today.”

He frowned. Hunting had been taking its toll on you lately, and he hated it. He’d tell you to stop, but you were no closer to stopping than the Winchesters or himself. He sighed, taking your hands in his. They were cold, like always. Your thumbs traced patterns over his skin absently, even though it was enough to distract him. He knew the steady movement kept you more grounded, kept you from spacing out. You did it a lot, and not just to him. You’d tap your fingers on diner tables, run your fingers through Dean’s hair when he was getting stitched up and trying everything not to scream through the pain, rub circles into Sam’s back after his nightmares, trace up and down where Cas had lost and regained his wings. 

You shivered, and Cas barely put a thought towards it before he wrapped his wings around you. He took his hands from yours and rubbed them up and down your arms in hopes the friction would provide some warmth. Instinctively, you leaned into him, your forehead against his shoulder. You bunched your hands in his shirt, mumbling against him.

“Thank you, Cas.”

“You’re, uh, you’re welcome, Y/N.”

He could feel your breath on his neck, and he shivered. He let his hands slide down your back, let the tips of his fingers dig into the dimples at the base of your spine. For a brief moment, he wondered if it was okay, but that thought was quickly dispelled as you snuggled deeper into him and your lips barely brushed at his neck. Castiel couldn’t tell if that was on purpose or purely accidental, but his breath hitched anyway. Almost immediately, you pulled yourself from him, sputtering, “Cas, I’m sor-”

“No, no, no, Y/N, you’re great,” Cas stammered.

Your eyes glowed up at him in the darkness, big and expressive, and _father help him_ , he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He brought his hands up to slide over your cheeks until his fingertips were in your hair, and, dropping his eyes shut, he sealed his mouth to yours. 

He expected you to stiffen, your back to straighten, for you to freeze against him. And that you did. You stilled, and Cas wondered how you could be that still and your lips still so damn _soft._ He ripped himself away from you with so much angelic force that you nearly went backwards. He scrubbed a hand over his face, frowning.

“Y/N, I -”

You curled your fingers into his shirt and yanked him towards you. That move, he would learn, was another part of you.


End file.
